The Shattered Divide
by Erolaris
Summary: Something is killing them off, one by one. The great civilizations are scrambling. Assassins from around the world are hunting for the mystery killer. Armies are being assembled. Guards are being trained. The forces of the world are striking out at each other in suspicion and fear and both the Alliance and the Horde are crumbling. The only solution is to stand together once again.
1. Games in the Light

She sagged sideways against the wall, keening and clutching at her side. The chamber was dark and cold, and the floor was hard stone. Pain arched through her. Every movement sent a bright sharp flash of it flooding outward from her ribcage. She clawed at her cotton tank top, her jagged nails catching in the ribbed fabric. She looked down to untangle them and saw the vivid red. An invisible angel was stroking the blotches, brushing and blending, spreading them outwards.

Her head fell back slowly, a moan dragged from her in a parody of ecstasy. Sweat trickled slowly off her chin and dripped down her neck. Her lips were chapped and torn, and her skin was deathly pale. Hair the colour of cream fell in a tangled mass half way down her back, the strands sticking to the skin of her neck and face.

"_Please. _I was weak._ Please._" Her voice was cracked and ragged. She closed her eyes and slid to the floor. The pain of the movement whipped at her and her body jerked even as her mind shut down. Blood seeped out of the wound.

The angel was painting, painting, painting.

"Oh, Light be with us." Cara groaned and rubbed her face tiredly.

"Want me to slip something in his drink? I could knock him out for the entire trip." Cara turned to see Darian leaning against a wall behind her. He was a worgan and a rogue. Neither made his appearance very friendly, but she loved him to death, furry muzzle and all. He was in full wolf form, and his fur was a rich charcoal. He kept his mane tied back with a strip of leather but let the fur on his chin go free. Two knives were strapped at his waist in plain black sheaths. He had dressed in his nice clothes—a dark green button-down shirt and smooth black leather pants—in preparation for an evening in the ship's bar. Unfortunately, that evening was quickly spinning out of control.

Their party was small but effective. Darian took care of stealth and scout work, the night elf Elennia was both a tactical genius and a strong warrior, Cara was a ruthless human sniper, and the draenei Chaklor was a vibrant and powerful mage.

Chaklor was also the most social of the group. After a long mission into the desert of Tanaris he was pining for some new company. The ship was a fantasy come to life for him, and he seemed to be making the most of it. Cara wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry as he stripped off his coat to reveal a black fishnet tank and stepped up onto the bar.

It wasn't as if he was the only one dancing on the wooden counter, but he certainly was the most unusual. He was slender and toned, and the tail that poked out through the hole in his low-rise jeans was tattooed with tribal designs. His hooves were lacking their normal polish after the Tanaris mission, but his skin was still velvety smooth and pale blue. His face was angular with high cheekbones and a faintly pointed chin. From his jawline sprouted four long, thin tendrils, two on each side of his face. He decorated them with the same tattoos that covered his tail. He kept his eyebrows neat and his eyelashes tinted. His hair was silvery and he allowed his side bangs to hang low enough to sweep into his eye and partially cover his smooth forehead plates. He was strikingly beautiful, and he knew it. He was also flamboyantly gay, but that didn't stop him from collecting a fair amount of female gazes as he danced over the countertop.

"If we knock him out we'll never hear the end of it." Cara sighed and sank into a chair at a nearby table. "Besides, he deserves a good party. He's saved our skins half a dozen times."

Darian grinned lopsidedly and sat down opposite her. "So have you." He pulled a flask from his belt and handed it to her. "I'd buy you a drink, but…well." He grinned back at the bar. Chaklor had found himself a suitor and they were tangling lips, still rocking to the music.

Cara laughed despite her exhaustion, and took a long drink from the flask. Warmth from the alcohol spread through her blood, and she yanked a suede bag from her back pocket and turned it upside down on the table. Carved dice and painted wooden sticks fell in a scattered heap. Cara grinned at Darian. "Play me?"

He ran a wolfish tongue across his teeth. "Loser has to carry Chaklor home in the morning."

"Deal." She snatched up the dice.


	2. Games in the Shadows

Here's a real chapter, to follow the little teaser from yesterday. Maybe I'll have another chapter out tomorrow, maybe not...We'll see. I've got a bad cold/sore throat thing right now, so I won't be going to school for most of tomorrow, but I might just sleep all day.

Let me apologize in advance for any errors in the depiction of the Temple of the Moon; I tried to get it as close to my memory as possible, but I might have missed some details.

Also, warning for gruesomeness.

* * *

The small body curled on the stone floor shivered once, and then lay still.

"_Awaken."_

The woman jerked again.

"_Awaken."_

Her eyes opened. The world was fuzzy, mist gathering at the edge of her vision. She pushed herself up a few inches. Her hands were in something wet. Uncomprehending, she lifted one to her face. The sticky dark blood was cold and full of clumps. She examined it closely, curiously, then lifted a red finger to her mouth. She sucked tentatively, then fell upon the rest of her hand with voracious hunger, licking and sucking the blood off her skin. She shuddered violently, and pain intruded upon her hazy brain. She looked down at herself.

The knife was lodged between two ribs. The handle was small and made of bone: a throwing knife. Memories slid into her awareness. The muscular female guards. The darkness of night and the light of the moon. Glowing pools. The usurper. Hatred.

She growled, a low, feral sound. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself upright in one, quick motion. Dizziness threatened to drag her unconscious once more, but she clutched at the wall and fought it. Agony had waves of nausea bubbling up from her stomach, but she fought that down as well. She was used to this, she was used to pain.

She stumbled forward. The chamber was nearly black, the only light filtering through cracks in the ceiling above. The floor was smooth and flat, but the walls and ceilings were rough and curved, carved into the mountain long ago. Her hands found the opposite wall, and she turned left and made her way along it until her booted feet found a depression. She pressed hard on the circular dent with her toes. Her legs trembled with the effort.

The wall shook under her fingertips. A blue light glowed in the circular trigger for a moment while the magic did its work. When the glow faded, so did the wall. She turned and stepped into the room, and the opening rumbled shut behind her.

She needed lights. Her fingers were slow and unresponsive, but she managed the spell after a minute. A bright orb of white light drifted up from her hand to hover above her head. This room was furnished, but sparingly. A bed with an iron frame sat in the far corner. To her right was a mirror and a sink, and nearby a chamber pot. Set along the back wall was a fearsome collection of weapons, mismatched and unorganized. The knives were stuck into a dark wooden board leaning against the wall, near the bed. They were arranged in the shape of a waving man with a tail. His smiling face was gouged into the wood within the circle of knives that made his head. Several longer daggers and a bastard sword were thrown uncaringly into a heap at the foot of the board, their sheaths thrown on top. Axes were laid on the floor in a circle, and arrows were placed around the shape, tips pointing outwards, as if they were rays from a sun. Bows were leaned up against the knife-board, some strung, some not. Various pieces of light armour were heaped in the far corner.

The woman turned toward the mirror and smiled. The look was ghastly; her mouth stretched too far, and her lips were white except in the centre where the blood she'd eaten had coloured them scarlet. Her eyes were wild and bright but shallow. They were human eyes, and the irises were a silvery brown. Shadows gathered beneath them as if in an attempt to give them back some of the depth they lacked, but it was to no avail.

She reached for a box on the sink's counter, and drew out a bottle, a pair of scissors, a needle and a spool of bright blue thread. She wrapped her hand around the knife hilt and pulled it out. Blood gushed out of the wound, and she pressed a hand to it. She scrabbled for a cloth lying on the right side of the countertop and sloshed clear liquid from the bottle onto it. Moving quickly, she tore off her shirt and threw it to the ground, then pressed the wet cloth onto her injury.

_"Ah-_ah." She gasped and her eyes squeezed shut as the alcohol did its cruel work upon the gash. Her free hand convulsed against the marble countertop. After a minute, she pulled the cloth away. She washed the wound with water, and then reached for the needle and thread. She threw her head back as she closed the incision stich by stich. Her smile was fierce and full of violence.

When the surgery was complete, she reached back into the box and pulled out a metal stamp in a shape like a feather. She held it in her left hand, and conjured a heating spell with her right. She heated the metal face until it glowed red. Then she went to the bed and eased her body down. The stamp was cooling slightly, the red receding from the design. Just as the last of the glow drained away, she put out her arm and pressed the stamp into her skin. Her back arched and she panted, but made no other noise. She let the stamp fall to the floor and she slumped back into the pillows.

_"Sleep now, little Latasha."_

Her eyes closed and her body relaxed. The brand on her arm was a bright and angry red. Beside it, on both arms, were a dozen more dark feather-shaped scars.

They were aligned in the shape of wings.

Tyrande Whisperwind sat on the edge of a balcony in the Temple of the Moon. Below her was the fountain, glowing ephemerally. Haidene, carved in white stone, held the overflowing bowl to the skies, as if entreating Elune Herself to dip down to drink. Tyrande wondered if she had.

Haidene had been the first High Priestess of the Moon, according to legend.

"And now that title falls to me." Tyrande curled her fingers around the cool stone and watched her feet stretch in the open air below her as if they belonged to someone else.

"High Priestess?" A woman put her hand on Tyrande's shoulder. Tyrande looked up into her face, startled; she had not realized she'd spoken aloud.

"Oh, it is nothing, A'moora." A'moora looked at her piercingly.

"If you need ears to listen, I am here." Tyrande nodded, then looked back towards the fountain. She heard A'moora's soft steps fade away behind her. Tyrande had no words for what was troubling her, not yet. It had come in a vision, but the vision was strange and warped. Dark mist had shrouded most, and the wind had howled about her, covering up all voices.

She had begun in a clearing, surrounded by twisting branches draped with moss and flowers. The visions always started this way. Life had pulsed palpably from the tree on which she stood. She knew it to be Nordrassil, as the World Tree had been during the long past times of peace. She had walked about the grass idly for a time, her bare feet tangling in the wildflowers.

Then she had felt the shift. Nothing changed about the scenery, but Tyrande suddenly perceived a sickening _wrongness_ all around her. She pulled her feet from the flowers in disgust. She still felt the life beneath her, but now it seemed to be filtering through a screen. A screen that blocked all love and allowed only fury and bitterness to touch her.

Mist rose from the ground and fell from the branches. Visibly, it was the same white mist that hung near the shores of Teldrassil, but it cast a shadow over all it touched. She backed away, loathe to let its creeping tendrils reach her, but there was nowhere to go. It did not chill her as ordinary mist might have, but numbed her. She felt lightheaded and incorporeal. The mist began to swirl, picking up speed until it howled around her in a violent wind. And then the World Tree disappeared.

Shapes flashed by her and twisted together into the face of Varian Wrynn, the human King. He was laughing and talking with dozens of others, but they were indistinct and shrouded in mist. The spinning winds stilled for a moment, and she watched as an archer lit an arrow and fired it towards Varian. It missed, and the archer nocked another flaming arrow. She called out to warn Varian, but too late. The flaming missile hit him in the back, and his hair burst into flame even as water gushed from the wound. He turned to Tyrande and smiled kindly at her. He opened his mouth and said something to her, his eyes warm and happy even as his crown melted in the flames, but the wind had begun to howl again and she could not make out his voice. She tried to reach for him, but her arms were not there. The gold from his crown dripped down his face and over his neck, where they turned the colour of blood.

Then the scene had dissolved. It did not solidify again for many moments, and when it did it was only to show her scraps of images that quickly changed. First there was a great orc who slaughtered a rabid warg only to have the dead beast leap up again and latch its jaws around his throat. Then she saw warriors crawling like ants over a darkened landscape, meeting in the middle with a great clash of weaponry. Next there was an Ancient of the Forest, sleeping peacefully amid a pile of small pale corpses. More and more flashed by, each briefer than the last, and all depicting scenes of violence. She saw dwarves drunk on poisoned ale, and trolls riding raptors into the sea, and thousands of birds descending upon the Exodar and pulling it apart. She saw all, but could not move nor make a sound. She was incorporeal, inexistent, powerless...

Tyrande wrenched herself away from the memory. She was gripping the ledge so tightly her fingers were numb and her arms were shaking. Her hands tingled as she let go of the ledge and stood. She needed to speak to someone, Malfurion perhaps. The brush of stone beneath her feet steadied her as she walked down the steps to the ground floor. Her breathing was slower now, and she felt calmer with her decision to relate the strange vision. She should have done so at once, but she had been afraid. Speaking of it seemed to make it more threatening, as if it had taken a step father from the dream world and closer to reality, but it needed to be told or it could not be prevented.

Her head was full of plans. She needed to send Varian Wrynn a letter at once; that much was certain. And another ought to be carried to the Prophet Velen. Perhaps he had seen a vision as well.

Tyrande's white robes trailed behind her. Her footsteps were quick and sure as she marched briskly to the Temple entrance. Suddenly her toe met something wet. She paused, and pulled her foot up to look at the bottom of it. She rubbed at the dark liquid, and brought it up to her eyes.

Night Elven blood.

Tyrande spun to her left as the arrow whished past. She dropped behind a low stone wall and threw a spell towards the source of the arrow. Another clattered harmlessly against the stones near her head. This one came from an area more to the right of the last, as far as she could discern. Both had been fired from the upper deck. She darted up and ran to take cover behind a tree to her left, firing magic that cracked the stones of the balcony she had sat on minutes before. An arrow narrowly missed her head, the deadly point slicing off a few strands of her thick hair.

_Where were the damn things coming from? _There couldn't be more than one archer; even two would have been discovered before reaching such a sacred spot.

_Even one should have been noticed. _She was not afraid; battle did not frighten her, and she had lived to long to truly fear death anymore. No, Tyrande was furious. How dare a Horde assassin desecrate the Temple of the Moon. When she had caught the vermin she would–

_Crack! _Another arrow slammed into the edge of the tree trunk and the wood shattered. A sliver stuck in Tyrande's shoulder and she yanked it out, fury raging. She knew the archer's location now. He was on the opposite side of the chamber, upper floor, likely behind the pillar that stood there. She spun gracefully around the tree and took shelter behind the statue of Haidene.

_Give me strength now, High Priestess,_ she thought, and directed all her power to the pillar. The stone cracked and the area around it blazed with a light so brilliant she had to look away, for fear of losing her sight. The ripple of power blew the hair back from her head, and her robes danced behind her. The ground trembled and the balcony collapsed under the strain.

When the rumbling stopped, all was silent.

Tyrande rose from her crouch, but stayed behind the statue. Her feet were immersed, and the edges of her garments were wet. Droplets had settled in her hair. All was still.

She reached out her awareness to the area of fallen stone, searching for another consciousness. Nothing was there; yet she could see no body. Something was wrong.

Perhaps she saw the small figure leap from the bowl in Haidene's arms, or perhaps the spirit of Haidene really was there to aide and alert Tyrande; whatever the reason, Tyrande moved in that instant, throwing herself towards the Temple doors. Thus, the long knife embedded itself in the right side of Tyrande's chest, not the left. The High Priestess gasped in surprise and fell to the floor, and the great Temple doors were thrown open with a great crash. The figure behind Tyrande yelped in alarm, and dashed away into the shadows as three mounted sentinels leaped over the threshold. Two darted off after the creature, while the third dismounted and ran to Tyrande. The High Priestess was panting, trying to heal the wound, but she had expended all but the last dregs of her power already.

Tyrande's vision was blurring, dark spots spreading across the world. Her lifeblood was pouring out of her, and exhaustion was entreating her to sleep, just sleep. The last thing she saw was Malfurion's face above hers, shouting something at her, but she could not make out the words.

* * *

Oh dear, what is going on?

Who am I kidding, you guys have probably figured out the whole plot by now. Important things happened in this chapter, though. Pay attention.

I'd love reviews or even random comments. I promise not to stab you with knives.


	3. A Pyre on the Sea

Alright, here it is! I apologise in advance for any mistakes. I'm a little woozy from alternating fevers and ibuprofen. I just now realized I've been spelling worgen wrong, so please disregard any mention of "worgans" in earlier chapters.

Enjoy!

* * *

Cara did a quick little kipping dance on the dock, trying to get used to being on solid ground. The rest of her party was still clambering off the ship, but Cara had made a point to be packed and ready the previous night. She loved Teldrassil.

It was still very early in the morning, and the mist was out over the water. She could hear the soft coos of the hippogriffs from their nests in the village behind her. Cara gazed out over the ocean, trying to imagine what it would be like to be one of the great serpents said to swim in the depths. She wondered if any of the druids here had spoken to the beasts of the deep; Teldrassil had no long beaches, and the drop off around the great tree's base was very steep. A druid might swim only thirty feet out and be above a great serpent or a sea bull. She had half a mind to try it her self, and had crouched down to untie her boots when a sabre cat roared from behind her. She jumped up and spun around. Five fully armored and armed sentinels were blocking the dock.

"All passengers and crew please depart the ship," the white-clad woman in the centre called out, "immediately."

The crewmembers exchanged confused looks.

"A'moora, what's going on?" The ship's captain stepped onto the dock, a frown on his face. He was one of the darker night elves, with indigo skin and long midnight-purple hair. The woman scowled at him for a minute before her expression softened.

"In a moment, Earofin. Stand aside and allow us to examine the vessel. If you care to stay and come with us to Darnassus, all will be explained." Earofin hesitated a moment, then stepped aside.

"Well, come on out here, then. All of you." He waved at the crowd of passengers, and they began to pour out onto the dock. Darian and Chaklor came to stand by Cara, but Elennia stepped up to one of the sentinels and asked her a question. The sentinel replied quietly and shook her head before sliding gracefully off her saber. The rest dismounted as well, and two of the tall violet elves slid into the crowd. The rest, including the Priestess A'moora, strode to the ship.

"They're checking everything." Cara whispered to Darian. Those on the ship were opening every crate and barrel and even searching the outer hull, as if expecting one of the barnacles to erupt into an orc. The two in the crowd were opening every bag and checking every passenger for concealment spells.

"And they're armed." Darian growled close to her ear. They were indeed; those in the crowd had drawn silver swords. The handles were intricately carved and inlaid with gems, and the blades themselves were masterpieces. The swords had been wrought by some great smith, the metal hammered over itself again and again until it was strong as dragonbone. Two rivulets ran straight down the centre of each blade.

Cara wanted one. Even though she was a hunter and hadn't the remotest idea of how to handle such a weapon, she wanted one. She made a soft little noise of longing, and Darian laughed his low, growly laugh.

"Look at the ones on the ship." Chaklor muttered. Cara looked, and gaped. The sentinels there had drawn another sort of weapon. Cara wasn't even sure how to classify these blades. They were huge, and had a glow about them as if dipped in moonlight. When the handle was held horizontal to the ground, the blade was vertical and faced behind the carrier. They were huge; the edge looked about five feet long. Their handles were just as beautifully made as the swords', but these weapons were not a thing of beauty. They were death wrought in steel.

The sentinels were descending cautiously into the bowels of the ship, braced to attack.

_But attack what? _Cara couldn't make sense of it. There were never sentinels in Rut'theran, just a few hippogriffs and some sailors. A sentinel padded gracefully over to them. It was the same one Elennia had spoken to earlier.

"May I see your bags?" Cara, Darian, and Chaklor held out their baggage in turn, and the sentinel searched them. Then she pulled back Chaklor's hood to look closely at his face. He winced in the light; his hangover was probably horrific. The woman studied the glow of his eyes for a moment, then moved to Darian. She asked him to open his mouth, and he did so with a wink, baring two dozen wickedly pointed fangs.

"If you would change, please?" The sentinel stepped back to give him room. He raised his eyebrows at her. For a moment he seemed like he was going to object, but Cara saw the sentinel's hand tighten on her swordgrip and kicked the worgen in the ankle. He glared at her, then sighed and shifted.

His human form was just as deadly as his true form, albeit with shorter teeth. He had black hair, tied at the nape of his neck. He usually kept his goatee short or shaved, but it had grown out during the Tanaris mission, giving him a slightly feral look. His eyes only added to the savage aura; they were a yellow amber and silver flecks glimmered in their depths when the light hit them right.

The sentinel cocked her head and allowed a small smile to curve across her lips. Darian winked again. Cara rolled her eyes.

Once they had all been searched and declared acceptable, they were led off the docks. The ship had apparently been deemed tolerable as well, because the Priestess walked up to join them.

"Darnassus has declared a State of Vigilance. There has been an occurrence, the details of which may be related to those who can be of help." She looked over the group. "You four there." The Priestess focused her eyes on Cara. "Are you available to carry out a mission?"

The group looked at each other. Technically they were available, but they had planned to rest for a few weeks before venturing out again.

"Take it." Elennia leaned close and whispered. "Something is wrong. This is all _wrong_. Ainarial–the sentinel who searched you–implied that blood has been shed." She hesitated. "I will stay whether you do or not. I cannot leave my people if they are in need."

"We have nothing on." Chaklor said decisively. "I will stay as well."

Cara held Darian's eyes for a moment. "We all will." She turned to the Priestess. "We are at your command, A'moora Priestess of the Moon." She inclined her head.

"Thank you." She nodded to the rest of the passengers. "We apologise for any inconvenience."

She turned and walked gracefully towards the portal at the crest of the hill. Cara's group moved to follow and Captian Earofin strode up to join them. The remaining sentinels remounted their cats and stayed behind to watch the dock, their armour gleaming in the morning sun.

A'moora led them quickly through Darnassus. Her booted feet were quiet even over the leaf-strewn grass. Cara tried to imitate her light strides, but it was impossible. Her human body could not replicate the grace of an elf. Even Darian, now back in his wolfish form, trode lighter than her. Of course, he was a rogue. She consoled herself with that knowledge and turned her attention to the surrounding city.

It could hardly be called a city, of course. There were no bustling streets or hawkers trying to sell trinkets at quadruple their worth. There were no carriages or dog-carts. Squirrels occasionally darted by, and there were a few forest moths drifting through the canopy, but Darnassus lacked the greedy chickens and mangy alley cats that crowded the cities near Cara's home. Those were human creatures, and they had no place upon Teldrassil.

Yet Darnassus was beautiful beyond compare, and it held many delights for Cara. They made some of the finest longbows she'd ever seen. There was one she'd had her eye on for nearly a year; it was made of darkened wood and the leather grip was stamped with cats and owls. She planned on carving her hunter's prayer into the wood, if she ever saved up enough to buy it.

_"Thank you for your life,_

_That it may save mine._

_May your death be swift and soft_

_And this arrow lead you far_

_To the beautiful Realm of Spirits."_

A'moora stopped before the Cenarion Enclave. Three sentinels barred the way. It seemed even A'moora's status did not exempt her from a short interrogation. She answered the quiet questions confidentially, and the sentinels nodded and let their party pass. The Priestess stopped before a door near the top of the tower and turned to face them.

"Two nights ago, Tyrande Whisperwind was attacked." Elennia froze at the woman's words. "She was injured gravely, but not mortally. We fear another assassination attempt, perhaps upon Malfurion Stormrage." A'moora's eyes were burning with fury, but her voice was cool and calm.

"She was attacked in the Temple of the Moon. The doors were barred and two guards and a novice Priestess were slain. Of the other Priestesses present, two are gravely injured. Another is recovering. I was lucky. The assassin slit my throat, but not deeply enough that I could not heal it. However, by the time I had recovered he had already assaulted Tyrande.

"He escaped, but one of our hunters believes she landed a knife in him. And here is our dilemma. We have very little information on the killer, and we are loathe to send away any of our troops while Tyrande and Malfurion are in danger."

"So you want us to assassinate the assassin." Darian seemed taken with the idea.

"When you say 'very little'…" Chaklor trailed off suggestively.

"We know he is of small build with light-coloured hair."

"Yeah." Cara folded her arms. "We're going to need more than that."

"There is more, but it is not mine to tell." A'moora moved to stand to the side of the door behind her. It was an intricate thing, as was all of the Cenarion Circle, and made of thick wood. Cara wondered if it was still alive, and if it was, whether it grew. Did the elves ever have an issue with the trees they lived in growing? The Priestess knocked once, and a moment later the door was opened. Cara's party slipped through it, but Earofin remained behind to speak to A'moora.

The chamber inside was windowless, but lit by dozens of tiny blue lanterns. The walls were covered in shelves and recesses upon which the glowing lamps were set. The result was a soft but bright light that chased all shadows out of the room. In the centre of the chamber was a bed, upon which lay Tyrande.

"I wish I could stand and greet you, but I am not quite recovered." She smiled at the group. "We will have to make do with what we have." She raised an arm and gestured to a line of chairs near the wall. They each grabbed one and placed it near the bed. The woman who had opened the door sat on the opposite side of the bed, near Tyrande's head. She wore the garb of a healer.

Tyrande studied the four newcomers closely. The draenei had angled his chair so he could see the door as well as Tyrande, and he maintained a ready grip upon his staff. _Protective of his friends_. Elennia was built like a warrior–muscular and tall–and her eyes moved over the room and Tyrande quickly. _Intelligence is in those eyes. _The worgen had a half-smile stretched across his wolfish face, and his eyes met Tyrande's without a blink. _He laughs often, but hides darkness within. _The human was the leader, judging by the way she carried herself, but she did not overwhelm the others. _She is the glue that binds them together. _

"You must first swear to take on the hunt for this assassin."

The adventurers met each others eyes. Chaklor nodded, but it was Cara who answered. "We swear."

Tyrande nodded and took a deep breath. Then she said gravely, "Varian Wrynn is dead."

Cara gasped with horror. Elennia's eyes widened, Chaklor paled, and Darian let loose a low rumbling growl.

"He was murdered in his own throne room two days before I was attacked. The news reached me yesterday. They sent his body down the canals on a pyre, and burned him over the sea."

Cara felt as if the world had fallen away beneath her. _Her king was dead and gone, and she was not even there to see his funeral._ She had met Varian on several occasions; he had been an accessible king. She had even carried out a quest on his orders. He had been fair and kind, and the only king she had ever known. _All that, gone to a rogue's blade. _Fury ignited within her.

"I tell you this so you may understand what you are dealing with, but also to give credit to what I am about to relate. Listen closely, for you may decipher something in my tale I have not." And then Tyrande Whisperwind told them every detail of her last vision. They listened in silence, their faces darkening with every word.


End file.
